


Baldor the Hapless

by Zella_Celan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Middle Earth, Middle Earth History, Rohan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 23:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12046923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zella_Celan/pseuds/Zella_Celan
Summary: In The Two Towers, Aragorn walks the Paths of the Dead and finds a skeleton on those paths. Who was that man? What made him walk the Paths of the Dead? Cross posted here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12340967/1/Baldor-the-Hapless





	Baldor the Hapless

A baby’s wail replaced a woman’s moans: Brego son of Eorl the Young had been blessed with a son. Rejoicing filled the night as the new prince cried lustily. But one midwife, a woman blessed – or perhaps cursed – with foresight, looked down at the bloody babe in her arms, shook her head mournfully and murmured, “He shall never be king.”

The hushed words nearly passed unheeded in the celebration, but Brego stood nearby, and he heard. He fixed a piercing gaze on her. “What did you say about my son?”

“He shall never be king,” she repeated sadly. “Unless he is kept away from gold.”

“Gold? What gold?”

“That I cannot see,” she replied. “All I know is gold shall be his bane.”

The king snatched his child away and ordered the woman to leave his presence. Nevertheless, all present felt the room’s new air of foreboding, and silence fell over the celebration of the birth of Baldor son of Brego.

 

As Baldor grew into a tall, fair, blue-eyed young man, the midwife’s words were gradually forgotten; only his mother still recalled that night with real fear. But even she sometimes dismissed the memory as she smiled proudly on her son. He was handsome, and, like his people, a great lover of horses and warfare. Despite his impetuous nature, he was well liked, for he was open and honest and possessed a quick, easy laugh.

Though not always known as the Hapless, even in his youth Baldor was impulsive and wayward, ever dragging his younger, more serious brother Aldor into danger and trouble. His tutors scolded, his mother wept, his father lectured, but nothing anyone said or did persuaded Baldor to change his ways.

 

When Baldor was eighteen, just coming to manhood, a traveler stopped and requested shelter for the night; it was readily granted and in return he promised to entertain them with a tale.

This traveler’s name was Freca, and he came for revenge. Perhaps it is no coincidence that he shared the name of the man whose son later led the Dunlendings in an invasion of Rohan; indeed it is said they were distant kin.

Eight years before, when Baldor traveled through the region of the Mark where Freca dwelt, Freca made an imprudent, though true, boast that none had ever beaten him in a horse race. Even then Baldor could not to resist a challenge, and the two raced, Baldor besting Freca by half a length. Freca, furious at losing his reputation to a mere child, never forgot that day and vowed to have revenge on the prince. In the presence of the royal family, however, he showed none of this, and Baldor, who had nearly forgotten the incident, did not recognize him.

That evening, all gathered to hear Freca’s tale; it had been some time since a bard had visited to entertain them. Freca spoke of the treasure cursed by the Dwarf-Lord of Nogrod; the story is given here in brief that what follows may be better understood.

 

Much is told of Thingol of the Elves and his kingship in Doriath in the days when Morgoth abode still in the world. At that time magic webs woven about the land by Thingol’s wife Melian protected Doriath; for she was no Elf but a Maia of Valinor, and she was the mother of Lúthien Tinúviel.

It happened in those days that Thingol quarreled with the Dwarves over ownership of the Nauglamir, Necklace of the Dwarves, fairest of the works of that people, after he let them re-make it to include the Silmaril Beren One-hand obtained for him as the bride price for his daughter. This was the end of Thingol’s reign, for the Dwarves in their rage slew him in his own halls and fled with the Nauglamir.

The Dwarves were pursued and destroyed and the Nauglamir returned to Melian; however, two Dwarves escaped and brought tidings to their kindred, who, their wrath aroused, gathered their warriors to march against Doriath.

In her grief, Melian departed from the world, returning to the land of the Valar and leaving Doriath vulnerable as it had never been before. Thus were the Dwarves victorious over the Elves. They plundered Thingol’s dwelling and took not only the Nauglamir but also much of the dead king’s treasure.

Word of these things came quickly to Beren and Lúthien where they dwelt in Ossiriand. Beren therefore summoned Dior his son and many of the Green-elves of that region and they ambushed the Dwarves at the River Ascar. The Elves were now the victors and Beren himself slew the Lord of the Dwarf city of Nogrod, taking from him the Nauglamir. As he died, the Dwarf-Lord in bitterness laid a curse on all the treasure he and his people had plundered from Doriath. That treasure was then cast into the River Ascar, which was from that time on known as Rathlóriel, or Goldenbed; but the Nauglamir Beren cleansed of blood in the clear waters of the river and bore it home and set it around the fair neck of Lúthien his wife.

Now it happened that as Beren and the Green-elves drowned the treasure of Doriath in the river, they were not as meticulous as they should have been, and a small remnant lay neglected on the shore. This fell into the hands of a rugged, unlearned band of Men who wondered in those lands. Because of the curse laid on it by the Lord of Nogrod, that treasure bred wars and bickering among its possessors, even those who had formerly counted themselves friends. In this way it passed through the long years. In the Second Age, after Morgoth had been overthrown and Sauron his servant began to grow in might, the treasure came to rest in the ownership of the king of the Men of the Mountains who worshiped Sauron in the Dark Years.

In those days Isildur came to Middle Earth from Numenor and befriended the King of the Mountains. Isildur brought from his former home a large black stone. It was round like a child’s ball but it stood as tall as a man. Isildur caused it to be half buried in the Hill of Erech and on it, in the beginning of the kingdom of Gondor, the King of the Mountains swore fealty to Isildur.

When Isildur called upon the Men of the Mountains to fulfill their oath and join him in fighting Sauron, out of mingled fear and love of the Dark Lord they refused. Filled with wrath, Isildur said to the King, “Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West prove mightier than thy Black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you will be summoned once again ere the end.”

Intimidated by Isildur’s fury, the mountain men cowered in the hills and went not to war at all. The years passed, the people dwindled. When the king died, he and his treasure were buried in a chamber under the mountain that came to be known as the Dwimorberg, or in Common Speech, the Haunted Mountain. For though they died, the Men of the Mountains rested not. Everywhere that people had once tarried the fear of the Sleepless Dead hung.

 

All listened intently to Freca but none more so then Baldor. He felt the Dwarves’ anger, Melian’s grief, the passion of those who possessed the cursed gold, Isildur’s wrath, the fear of the Men of the Mountains. Baldor fell asleep that night with his mind full of Elves and necklaces and mighty kings.

The next day as Baldor walked through the halls of his home, he turned a corner and met Freca, who was deep in thought. The older man looked up and smiled pleasantly. “Prince Baldor! You are the person I was looking for; I wish to speak with you.”

“You wish to speak to _me_?” Baldor asked, startled.

“Yes, I do. Is there somewhere private we could go?”

“Not here, no,” Baldor replied, “but if you care for a ride I know of a place.”

“That would do well.” The mention of riding brought the disastrous race to Freca’s mind, and he seethed inwardly as he and Baldor made their way to the stables, recalling that day and the humiliation he had felt at being beaten at all, much less by one of so few years.

Freca followed Baldor up into the mountains for a long time. As they drew closer to the Dwimorburg, Freca became more agitated with every step his horse took. He found himself continually looking over his shoulder, certain some unseen observer watched the two riders. Baldor finally stopped in a fertile glen; its entrance was nearly invisible and Freca had thought the young prince would ride into the mountainside, but when he looked closer he spotted a narrow path winding down into a small, isolated valley.

“We are safe here,” Baldor told Freca. “No one else dares come this close to the Dwimorburg.”

“That I understand,” said Freca, glancing around nervously.

Baldor was suddenly concerned. “I am sorry; I did not think,” he said. “Do you want to go further back?”

“No, I will be all right. It does not bother you?”

Baldor shook his head and shrugged. “No. If I go closer it begins to disquiet me, but here I am fine.”

Freca swallowed hard and thought, _It seems I have chosen my revenge well, hard though it may be for me_.

“Why did you wish to speak with me?” Baldor asked, interrupting Freca’s thoughts,

Endeavoring to shake off his fear, Freca replied, “You were moved by my story last night, were you not?”

Baldor’s face brightened. “Immensely. It seemed very real.”

“Perhaps that is because it is a true story. There is a little more of the tale I wish to share with you. It has been a family secret for years, but as I have no son of my own, I have searched for some time for a trustworthy young man to share it with. I have decided that you will be that young man.”

Ignoring Baldor’s exclamation of surprise, Freca continued. “My forefather was one of the Men of the Mountains who defied Isildur. He assisted with the burial of the king and his treasure, and he stole this.” Freca reached into a pocket, pulled out a ring, and offered it to Baldor.

Baldor took it hesitantly and stared at it with wide eyes. “He stole it?”

“Yes. It is so small that the theft was probably quite simple; all he needed to do was slip it in some pocket.”

Baldor turned the ring over in his hands, examining it. The band was fashioned of fine silver and set with three gems. Two were diamonds, but the middle jewel was a red stone he did not recognize. It was larger than the diamonds and was the color of blood; veins of an even deeper red ran through its depths.

“Try it on,” Freca urged. Baldor needed little encouragement and found that the ring fit easily on the third finger of his right hand, almost as if it had been made for him. Freca nodded in satisfaction. “This was meant to be. You see it fits you; it has never fitted anyone in my family. It would have been made, after all, for an Elf, and Men tend to have larger hands.”

Baldor looked at his hands. Although they were strong and capable, it was true that he had long slender fingers.

“I am giving it to you,” Freca said.

Baldor’s head shot up, and he eyed the other man suspiciously. “You must be insane; I cannot take this.” For a moment a common sense Baldor did not know he possessed ruled his thoughts. It would be foolish to take such a gift; he hardly knew this man, and Freca knew the ring had been stolen from cursed treasure. How could there be good intentions behind such a gesture? But even as he spoke, his headstrong nature reclaimed control, and the curse, which had slept for so long, began to awaken, and Baldor wanted the ring.

“No, I insist; it is yours,” said Freca, though his hands shook from a desperate desire to snatch the ring back. He clenched his fists and forced himself to think of the long ago race. “What is more,” he added, “I will tell you one last bit of information. To find the room where the king is buried you must enter the Dark Door in the Dwimorberg and follow the wide main passage; there will be other paths, but they are smaller and poorly made. The passage will wind through the mountain for several miles, and then you will come to a cavern. On the far left wall is a stone door that leads to the tomb.”

Baldor turned his questioning gaze on Freca. “What would I ever do with such knowledge?”

“I know not. Pass it on to your descendents and perhaps they may take advantage of it when the Dead are called again and allowed to rest as it is prophesied.”

“I do not understand why you are doing this,” said Baldor. “You do not know me.”

Freca placed his hand on Baldor’s shoulder. “It is easy enough to see the sort of person you are, and I already told you I have been searching for a young man to share this with.” He smiled. “Trust me.”

Baldor twirled the ring on his finger thoughtfully. He still mistrusted the situation, but his heart quailed at the thought of returning the beautiful ring to Freca. Finally he laughed, “I believe this is the longest I have ever taken to come to a decision. Thank you, I accept.”

“Very good. Now let us leave this place.”

 

From that day on, lust for treasure entered Baldor’s heart; not a desire ordinary gold could appease, but one that could only be sated with the cursed treasure of Thingol. The change was not immediately evident, but soon those closest to Baldor began to sense an unprecedented harshness and restlessness in his manner. His mother mentioned it first.

“Baldor,” she said one day when they were alone in a corridor, “is anything wrong?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Ever since that bard’s visit you have seemed…discontented.”

Unconsciously, Baldor began to twist the ring on his finger as he considered his response; for he felt that there was something wrong with him, but he knew not what.

His mother took his hand. “I have never seen this ring before.”

Baldor felt the blood rise to his face. Why had he worn it so openly? “Freca gave it to me,” he said, not wishing to lie to his mother.

“Truly? That is strange, but it does fit you well.”

Baldor only nodded distractedly; he was torn between hope that she had forgotten her question and desire to wrench his hand out of her gentle grasp, and he needed all his focus to prevent either emotion from showing in his face.

She released his hand before asking, “Are you happy here, my son?”

That he could answer. “Yes, of course I am, Mother.”

She smiled and briefly caressed his cheek, saying, “That is well,” before leaving Baldor to his agitated thoughts.

 

Seven years passed, years that transformed Baldor from a naïve, amiable, and spirited eighteen-year-old into a hard, cold, troubled young man. Baldor frequently treated even his family and close friends harshly, and with others his actions bordered on cruelty.

One day as he returned from a solitary ride, Baldor halted on a ledge overlooking Edoras and gazed at Meduseld. His future home was nearly completed after years of construction, and its golden roof gleamed in the brilliant sunlight. Suddenly he spied a figure on a horse cantering up the path towards him. It was Aldor his brother, the one person besides his mother whom Baldor could still treat with civility.

“I thought I would find you here,” Aldor said as he brought his proud horse to a stand beside his brother’s horse. Baldor did not reply, and Aldor followed his gaze. “Beautiful, is it not?” he commented softly.

Baldor shifted uneasily in his saddle. Aldor stifled a sigh and did not even bother to ask if something was wrong; he was far too familiar with his brother’s dismissive answers.

“Father needs to speak with you,” Aldor said. He hesitated for a moment as Baldor automatically began to descend the path, then he added, “Would you like to race back?”

For the first time his words penetrated Baldor’s distant mood. He looked at his brother and asked, “What?”

“Race back for old time’s sake. Do you remember how you would always challenge me to race down this hill and we would always get in trouble but do it again the next time anyway?”

“Yes, I remember,” Baldor laughed. “You were always angry with me because I won.”

Aldor nodded, grinning. “That is why I always agreed to race again. If I could have won just once it would have all been over.” Aldor looked thoughtfully at the reminiscent smile on his brother’s face and wondered how far he could go. “I miss those days.”

Baldor met his brother’s eyes. “So do I.”

“What has happened to you, Baldor?”

Looking down at the ring on his right hand, the prince shook his head. “I wish I could tell you.”

Aldor guided his horse close to Baldor and reached over to grasp Baldor’s hand; he unconsciously covered the ring, causing Baldor to start and meet Aldor’s gaze with wide eyes. “You can.”

For a long moment they stared at each other before Baldor’s eyes hardened again. “No, I cannot,” he said sharply as he shook his brother’s hand away.

Aldor sighed deeply. “Do you still want to race?”

“Of course I do,” replied Baldor with a trace of a smile. So the two young men galloped down the steep path; as always, Baldor reached the stable first.

 

That night Baldor found himself unable to sleep. Aldor’s words ran unceasingly through his head: “What has happened to you, Baldor?” Baldor stared at his ring; in the moonlight the red stone burned with an inner fire and the diamonds glittered like sunlight on a trickling stream. It whispered to him of immeasurable wealth and the power and recognition it would bring. Suddenly Baldor sprang out of bed. In minutes he was riding quietly up the path that lead to the Dark Door.

A full moon shone on the mist that hovered over the ground, giving the world an eerie silver glow. The familiar houses and streets of Edoras surrounded him, their shapes distorted and unreal. The silent stone Pûkel-men watched Baldor’s progress as the muted clip-clop of his horse’s slow walk followed him up the path.

A cloud drifted over the moon, throwing everything into darkness. Baldor halted his horse and fought back a sense of foreboding. He nearly turned back before the cloud passed, but when the ethereal light again lit his path he pressed on.

When Baldor came to the Dimholt and its dismal pine forest, his horse would go no further. Baldor dismounted, looped the reins over a branch, and continued on foot.

Little light filtered through the closely-knit branches. Foundering through unfamiliar territory, Baldor stumbled over roots while prickly branches thrust themselves into his path, scratching his face and arms. With every step, Baldor’s faltering feet crushed a deep carpet of fir needles, filling the air with the heady scent of pine. He heard only his heavy breathing, loud in the unnatural stillness. When he found the other side of the forest, he stood next to a towering wall of rock. Overhead, the trees drew back from the mountainside, revealing the starry night sky. A stone stood in his path, warning Baldor to go no further. He stepped around it and stopped, beholding for the first time the Dark Door.

Out of the opening in the rock wall flowed a cold draft of stale air; the wooden door once used to block the passage had long ago rotted away. Carved above the arch of the door were words and figures too worn by the passage of time to be read.

Baldor gasped. Staggered backward. Cowered against the cold rock whose warning he had not heeded. Who could imagine such terror? He could approach the very feet of the Dwimorburg and feel nothing. Faced with the Door of the Dead, he was undone.

Crawling.

Breathing.

A sharp rock and slicing pain.

Slick blood covering his palm.

Then he’d rounded the standing stone and he lurched to his feet and fled through the forest and flung himself on his horse and galloped home.

Baldor never slept that night. He trembled uncontrollably until the sun rose.

The next day, Baldor told no one of his midnight expedition. Aldor, who guessed more than Baldor would have liked, commented that Baldor’s excuse of not sleeping well did not explain the scratches on his face. Had anyone else made such a statement, Baldor would have made them regret it, but he only gave his brother a hate-filled glance and turned away. Aldor bit his lip and kept his suspicions to himself.

 

After two more years, Meduseld’s construction was complete. Brego ordered a great feast to hallow the new-built Golden Hall. All the residents of Edoras attended. Freca arranged to be present the night of the feast; he had a feeling he would finally see his revenge completed.

The feasting continued into the late watches of the night and high spirits filled the hall. Freca sat near Baldor and his clever tongue turned the conversation to a boasting game. In an effort to top the others, Baldor declared, “I have been to the Door of the Dead.”

A hush fell. Freca broke it. “Did you enter?”

“Well…”

“Of course not,” Freca scoffed. “You fled like the coward you are.”

Baldor sprang from his bench, pricked by the accusation. “I am no coward!”

Freca also rose and sneered at him, “No? Then why did you not enter?”

With his senses reeling from too much wine, treasure lust, hatred of Freca, and anger at the label coward were too much for Baldor. He snatched up his goblet of wine and raised it. “I swear that before the sun has set on the morrow I shall have entered the Door of the Dead!” he cried, and he drained the goblet.

Silence descended over the hall as all eyes turned to Baldor. Freca laughed. “Revenge is sweet.” He spoke softly, leaning across the table so his words only reached Baldor’s ears.

“Revenge?” asked Baldor.

A frenzied gleam sparked in Freca’s eyes. “Yes. Revenge. Do you remember when you were young and became the first to defeat me in a horse race? I was angry. I spent years plotting my revenge. It nearly killed me to give up that ring. But I did, and tomorrow you shall die.”

Suddenly Baldor did remember; he drew his sword and leapt over the table, but Freca fled from the hall and escaped into the night.

 

Baldor did not stay for the remainder of the feast but locked himself in his room and paced. Soon he heard a gentle knock on his door. “Go away,” he growled.

Aldor’s voice replied, “Will you please let me in?”

After hesitating a moment, Baldor did as his brother requested. Shutting the door behind him, Aldor dragged his brother to a bench under the room’s one window, sat down, and make Baldor sit beside him. “Tell me about it,” he said firmly.

Baldor did. He told everything, from the ill-fated race to Freca’s parting words.

“You do not have to go,” Aldor said when he had finished.

“Yes I do!” Baldor stood and resumed his pacing. “I swore an oath. And the treasure calls me.” He stood still and buried his face in his hands. “Part of me is more sober tonight than I have been in years. But there is another, bigger, stronger part that longs to feel the forbidden gold trickle through my fingers. It will win in the end.” He took a deep breath, dropped his hands, and looked straight at Aldor. “I will die tomorrow,” he said calmly. “I can feel it. But perhaps it is better this way; I would never be a good king, and in a way it will be a release. Would you…” His voice wavered briefly. “Would you tell mother goodbye and apologize for me? I do not think I can face her.”

Aldor walked over and placed his hands on Baldor’s shoulders. There were tears in his eyes, yet he also spoke calmly. “Of course I will.” They looked at each other for a moment, and then Aldor gave his brother a rough hug. “Goodbye.” He left without meeting Baldor’s eyes.

“Goodbye,” Baldor murmured.

 

Baldor stood at his bedroom window, hands clasped behind his back. As he watched, the eastern sky began to flush pink. The time had come.

As he saddled his horse, Baldor heard movement behind him. Whirling around, he saw his father standing in the stable.

“I am coming with you,” Brego said.

“No!”

“Not in, but I will go to the Door with you.” Brego’s tone allowed no argument, and soon the two men were on their way. Baldor could not help but notice how different this was from his last journey to the Door of the Dead; the sky swiftly brightened, people stirred in their houses, and he could smell smoke from rekindled fires. For a moment life seemed immeasurably sweet, but he glanced down at his ring and suddenly no longer cared if he lived; the treasure – his treasure – consumed his thoughts. He would finally have his wish!

“Why are you doing this?” Brego asked suddenly.

“Ask Aldor,” was Baldor’s distracted reply. He did not hear the deep grief in his father’s voice.

“He knows?”

“Yes.”

They were forced to leave their horses at the edge of the pine forest, for the horses, wiser than the men, refused to go farther. Walking through the forest and around the stone, they found the Door of the Dead. Brego stopped at the edge of the standing stone and fought panic, but Baldor, focused only on the treasure, felt no fear. He lit a torch and stepped toward the Door. “Baldor, no!” Brego cried out.

Baldor turned to face him, a wild gleam in his eyes. He laughed madly. “And why not?” Without waiting for an answer, he again approached the Door. Then an old man sitting on the threshold spoke.

“The way is shut,” he said.

Baldor and Brego started. In his frenzy, Baldor had not noticed the man; Brego had mistaken him for a stone statue. They gazed at him. He was old and withered, though he might once have been tall and kingly. His blank eyes stared straight ahead. He spoke again.

“The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the times comes. The way is shut.”

Baldor was shaken. “And when will that time be?” He received no reply, for the old man fell forward, dead.

“Please Baldor, do not go,” Brego pleaded, weeping.

Staring down at the dead man, Baldor hesitated once more. Then he fingered his ring and hesitated no longer. Straightening, he proclaimed resolutely, “I swore an oath. I will keep it. Tell Freca I care not about his revenge.” He strode through the Door.

Brego fled blindly back to Meduseld.

 

Baldor walked with no fear until he passed a side passage. He then felt as though he were being followed and glanced over his shoulder, but he saw nothing. The feeling grew each time he passed an opening until he found it difficult not to break into a run. The Dead followed.

It was silent. The light from the entrance had long disappeared, and the feeble torchlight only served to further darken the surrounding blackness. The path wound on and on and Baldor began to wonder if he was in the wrong passage. He thought of turning around, but the instant he considered it, the feeling of being followed redoubled and he began to run, nearly putting out his torch. Still the Dead followed.

Finally Baldor entered a cavern. He halted, startled, and gasped as he felt himself surrounded. He found the left wall and hurried along it, searching for the door, searching, searching. There! He could escape this terror. He grasped the handle… Locked.

Dropping the torch, Baldor struggled with the latch in vain.

The invisible menace of the Dead drew closer.

He drew his sword. His desperate cries echoed in the chamber. He hacked furiously at the door.

The sword snapped. Knocked off balance, Baldor fell to his hands and knees.

So close. And at the end, refused even one glimpse of his treasure.

“Nooooooo!”

He howled.

None but the Dead heard.


End file.
